Georgia squared her shoulders, tried on her practiced smile, lifted her fist, and knocked. Then knocked some more. Then pounded on the industrial steel until her fist hurt. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Ethan had clearly advised against just letting herself in, but how long was she expected to stand outside and wait?
Screw it. She fished her keys out of her bag and unlocked the door. If the guy wasn’t housebroken, well, she carried a Taser and could fix that quickly enough. It’d get her fired—she could try to spin it in her own mind as the most electric resignation ever—but the satisfaction of watching the inconsiderate jerk squirm would be worth it. Probably. Maybe. Okay, so she’d keep the Taser in her bag and stick with the fantasy.
Gripping the welded handle with both hands, Georgia slid open the steel door. She’d expected it to squeal and protest, given its age and condition, but it slid open easily on silent tracks. Which made the appearance of the man standing on the other side, staring blankly at her as if he had no clue how she’d appeared, a little unnerving.
Smoothing down her irritation, Georgia reminded herself she liked her job. “Mr. Livingston?” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. “I’m Georgia Bennett. With Somerton Security?” Nothing. Just a vacant stare. Worry crept in, crowding out her irritation. Was the guy hurt? Drugged? “Mr. Livingston, are you all right?”
Georgia inspected him from the top of his shaggy head to the bottom of his bare feet. Ho-ly hell. Her mouth went dry. She’d seen a photo of him in the spread Wired had done—a candid shot of a nerd, drawn and pale, hunched over a computer, a No. 2 pencil clutched between his teeth and a gaunt cut to his features. But this guy . . . this guy was . . . was, well, Georgia wasn’t quite sure what he was. What she did know was that he didn’t just punch all the right buttons; he lit ’em up like she’d hit the jackpot on the marquee slot machine in Vegas.
No man had any right to be so drop-dead sexy standing practically comatose in a gray, threadbare T-shirt and a pair of navy-blue Jockeys that left little to the imagination. Add in the sexed-up hair and sheet prints on his cheek and there was just something warm and soft and utterly disarming about the guy. He was lazy Sunday mornings after sex-against-the-wall Saturday nights.
Whew. Nerds. Who knew?
Elizabeth Dyer likes her heroines smart and snarky, and her heroes strong and sexy. An attorney and recent coffee devotee, Elizabeth spends the majority of her time tucked into a corner table at Starbucks or pinned beneath her (overly affectionate) bullmastiff. When she isn’t working or wrestling the dog, you can usually find Elizabeth writing the types of sexy, suspenseful books she most loves to read.
A born-and-bred Texan, Elizabeth resides in Dallas, where she indulges in Netflix marathons, Instagramming her dog, and brunch. Definitely brunch. Adorably awkward, Elizabeth hates the phone as much as she loves all the social-media things and hearing from her readers. Follow her on Twitter (@lizdyerwrites) or Instagram (@elizabethdyerwrites).
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